Getting Ahead
Arrish decides to help Creel out with a small problem he has -- an irate goblin has placed a bounty on his head. Find someone with similar enough features and it's hard to tell one head from another. So with Creel's agreement to stay out of sight for a long enough to secure the deal, she and Zannis, AKA Lapis, put on a show. Acquisition of a Prop :''--by Zannis'' Category:Zannis In retrospect, he probably shouldn’t have made that last “head” joke. Zannis Greyton loved swordplay. He’d loved it as a child, learning the basics from his father. He’d loved the intricate footwork - even if only meant for the stage - taught by Jasine in the Exhibition, back when she cared if he lived or died. He’d spent all his extra coin for a year to keep the troupe’s swordsmaster in enough mead so he’d give Zannis lessons in what it really meant to wield a blade. He wasn’t bad. But he wasn’t good, either. Unfortunately, the men below him on the hard-packed earth were good. They wore the Stormwind Guard insignia, with a rosette on the inside corner. Lady Prestor’s personal guards, damn. No wonder the last head joke...ah, well. It was more than a little rude of the guards to protest after they'd already received more than standard payment, but. Authorities were notorious for their lack of humor. Zannis leapt to another branch, this one a bit thinner. He hated fighting from trees. Mitzpick had insisted on a fair amount of high-flying acrobatics, given the number of plays in which the hero - thought vanquished, an entire act before! - had to leap nimbly into the fray just as the villain was about to finish his most evil deed. At first, the hero-players would run in from the back of the crowd, but a few drunk rowdies and a pickpocket or two rendered that difficult. No, for the Exhibition, only the unexpected was allowed. And Zannis learned how to fight, with swords, from trees. At least he still had the head. That was something to impress even Arrish’s oversensitive mark. He’d watched, what, ten executions, at least, before a prisoner fit the description? At least the man was brave. He’d stepped to the block with a sneer at the guards, and that sneer remained on his face still. Right. Escaping now. Zannis shook his head at his opponents, fifteen feet below. “If you’d done your jungle training, you’d have run me through by now.” He grinned, white teeth behind black beard. “Pity.” With that, he reached for the branch above him, tucked his sword in his belt, and swung himself upwards. One of the guards broke from the overall strategy of shouting obscenities and ran for the Keep’s dungeon entrance. Damn. Archers. “Quick, now,” Jasine would have said, and he’d have at most, five seconds before she knocked him flat. She always knocked him flat. “Not today,” Zannis yelled, to her or the guards, he wasn’t sure. He started climbing, hand over hand, the head in its satchel banging against the back of his thighs. Fifteen feet up, one thin branch led to a balcony with an open door. Faster. The shoulders of his muscles burned; hiding in his room was taking its toll. He’d move back to Theramore when Arrish was done with him here; the paladins there were always up to sparring. “Jump!” Jasine again, an image that never left him. An arrow whizzed by his head, snagging a lock of hair, but nothing else. He made the leap. His shin caught the railing; the pain was white-hot for a moment, until he pushed it aside. He flung himself through the open door, somersaulted once when it became clear he was going to land on his face otherwise, and kept his footing. Barely. The lady within the chamber might not have been completely surprised by his sudden appearance. Perhaps. At least she didn’t scream. She was more than passing fair, a dyed redhead with corsets that did miraculous things to what seemed an already generous figure. He gave her a grin and a bow, and tried to keep the bag with the head in it behind his back. She held a finger to her lips, then crossed the room to press at a tiny knot in the carved plaster. A small door swung open, leading into a darkened passageway. “My lady,” he said. “Visit anytime,” she answered. “I’ve trained in the jungles.” His laughter trailed behind him as he ducked into the passageway. Time to deliver a satchel to a lady. Backstage :''--by Arrish'' Perhaps she should have tried harder to stop those assassins. She knew that the Syndicate made periodic raids into Southshore, but she'd never bothered to check for avenues of attack, nor expected that it would come so ill-timed that night. Had they noticed her there and chosen that approach because of it? The Syndicate had little love for her. Petty, just petty, to attack her companion first, though she had to admit it was their best chance of striking any meaningful blow against her. Even unarmored she was hardly unarmed; her main difficulty with them was in breaking cover. Training has a tendency to take over and it was hard to drop role until it was too late. Now he thought she'd set them on him. A bit self-aggrandizing, this one, to think she'd go to such lengths. But at least what they'd done to him was mendable, thanks to Eustace, and at least the man was still willing to work with her after he was back on his feet. Eustace -- she'd have to worry about that later, his all-too-timely arrivals and placements. Right now she had a job to do. But this, though, this must be some slantwork form of revenge. She touched the red-gold wig with disdain. She'd intended to have him go in alone, nothing to connect her with this, but he was jumpy since Southshore and he liked the pomp of having an assistant. At least it would let her keep a close eye on things, from somewhere she could step in if needed. She did not intend a repeat of those assassins. However, she wished she hadn't let him acquire the costume. This getup was taking the slinky henchwoman look a bit too far. She sighed and started applying makeup, changing her skin tone to something more like peaches, to match the wig. Covering any identifying marks. At least they probably weren't going to look at her face much while she was wearing this, damn the man. She practiced an expression in the mirror, halfway between a tiger's lazy look and a bored simper. Well, her own father wouldn't recognize her in this and that was a good thing. She sighed and started pinning her own wheat-colored hair close to her head, meticulously careful to keep it from escaping. It looked odd against her new skin. The satchel waited on the table. When she'd checked the contents she'd also lined it with oilcloth to keep it from leaking. Really it was quite a good likeness, though she wasn't sure how he'd managed the sneer. She hoped she hadn't miscalculated with him -- it would be a shame if there were complications due to this piece. But nothing connected her with it, and she'd been curious to see how well he do, left to his own devices. Done dressing, she tried not to be too annoyed that everything fit as well as it did. She gave her appearance a final critical once-over, moved through the last two patterns of a vigorous drill to see if anything was prone to fly loose if things deviated from plan, then practiced walking as the clothing implied: more from the hips than usual, more posing than was her wont. Don't overdo it, but this is someone chosen as much for decoration as for blade-skill, so be that. Don't just fade into the background. It'd certainly be more simple if.... She shook her head at her thoughts and adjusted the angle of the rapier; it had a faintly ridiculous basket hilt but at least the blade was real and the balance was workable. She tucked a red-gold lock behind the skimpy veil, checked the blending on her makeup, sighed, and picked up the satchel. They were to meet at the gryphon master in Theramore and fly south. This wasn't a complicated job, and the risk was lower than she was used to, but already she had some tension in the pit of her stomach, the tendency for everything to seem a little sharper: smells, colors, sounds. By the time they hit sand she'd be sharp as a knife. She'd want to be, too; she was too used to working alone. She was going to have to learn his pacings on the fly and adjust in a heartbeat if he tossed any improvisations her way. He'd better not stray too far from script. Here to see a Man about a Head :''--by Zannis'' "Why, Amber. How lovely." Arrish ignored his low bow, as he thought she might. "Mr. Lapis. Am I acceptable?" Zannis stood back and took in the full effect. "Good. Good." He adjusted the wig a bit, pushed a curl here and there. Arrish endured the adjustments with a coiled patience. "There. There's not a goblin in the world who'd look twice at a silly little severed head while you're standing by. Shall we?" Again, that measured nod, that cool regard. The garb fit her well; he'd always had an eye for costuming. If she was seething a little behind that businesslike expression, all the better. The goblins liked a bit of disgust to go with their ogling. He made a few changes to his own appearance while the gryphons sailed south. A bit of padding to the cheeks, stuffed beside his gums. An ornate bronze cuff, easily described, clasped to his upper arm. His clothes were simple: black hides cut to fit his form, vest and trousers and boots he finished buffing just as the gryphon landed. If Arrish noticed the change to his face's shape, she said nothing. When he extended his arm, she took it. The satchel hung from her other hand, strap wound to her wrist. "Hey!" He hadn't expected to take two steps into Gadgetzan without someone noticing either the satchel or the lady, and he was not disappointed. "Hey!" The goblin was a small specimen, with worn scales more grey than green. He bounced forward and back on his feet as he stared up at the two humans. "You got business here? I show you business. I show you jewels, I show you dreamdust, I can --" "Miss Amber. Tell this thing our business." The Lapis-voice was lower than Zannis' usual one, deep and resonant. The goblin and Arrish both blinked. Arrish tucked her look of disdain behind a more placid expression than Zannis would have thought her capable of making. "We have a bounty to redeem," she said, her voice also cast low. The goblin stuck a hand out toward the bag in her grasp; just as quickly, Arrish caught the goblin's arm in her grip. "We will talk to the gentleman directly," she said in that low, but level tone. Next to her, Zannis nodded as imperiously as possible. The goblin muttered and puffed himself up a bit, but when Arrish released his thin arm, he scampered off without another word. "Now we either get twenty of them with spears, or one to take us where we need to go." Arrish nodded at Zannis' almost inaudible whisper. In the meantime, he escorted her to the entrance of the tavern. Lapis wouldn't stand in the desert sun like a lackey. He'd make himself comfortable. Another goblin approached as he pulled out a rough wooden chair for Arrish. "Hey! Why you in here? The master's waiting, come on come on." Zannis felt Arrish stiffen next to him; he laid a hand on her elbow whether she'd welcome it or not. She tensed even more, then relaxed. "Take us to him," Zannis said in Lapis' voice. The goblin, who was alternating between scowls at Zannis and open stares at Arrish, nodded and ran back out in the sunshine. "After you," he said to Arrish. They followed. ---- The original interleaved stories in Arrish and Zannis's journals.